


Sburbia

by krazieLeylines



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Aged up characters, Diary/Journal, Everyone has skeletons, Humanstuck, Multi, Rose is a housewife, Secret Relationship, Set in the late 60's/early 70's, Suburbianstuck
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-27
Updated: 2013-06-26
Packaged: 2017-12-16 07:26:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/859478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/krazieLeylines/pseuds/krazieLeylines
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I am a woman of much joy. I have traveled, I had thought, to a land of bland synchronicity and sameness, in which no man’s opinion would come from any source other than the collective consciousness they call the “good of the community”. Then you see how elated I must be to have been mistaken, and to have found at least one tongue that bears at least a passing resemblance to a razor’s edge. </p><p>And, even more so, I look upon these cornfield rows of singularity and whitewashed fences, and no longer do I see my imprisonment.</p><p>Call me wicked, journal, but I think there may be a bit of fun in this town to be had.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sburbia

**Author's Note:**

> Characters and their alternative names:  
> Johnathan -- John, Janet -- Jane, Roxanne -- Roxy, Kayanna -- Kanaya, Kent -- Karkat, Norma -- Nepeta, Edwin -- Equius, Monica -- Meulin, Ernest -- Eridan, Virginia -- Vriska, Xander -- Sollux, Gary -- Gamzee, Dawnie -- Damara, Timothy -- Tavros, Felicia -- Feferi

MAY

10/14/1969

Dear Journal,

For future reference, if I should ever desire to look back upon what I have written within the folds of your mass produced bleach white pages, the year is 1969. I am not usually prone to recording my thoughts in the usual fashion, but seeing as you are a gift from my dear Jonathan, it would be a shame to miss the chance to take part in a tradition as old as time, or at least as old as parchment has been around. Surely he would take great joy watching me scrawling away my personal thoughts here where they cannot be heard by our lovely new neighbors.

Forgive my ineptness, as well, for I’m not sure the proper formalities that come with spilling one’s soul onto an empty page. Should I assume that you are familiar with my life and everything about me, and just skip to the juicy gossip? Again, my apologies for my brashness, but if you already knew all there was to know about me, then any thoughts I had to share would be tedious to you. And far be it from me to bore you with repetitive admissions. If such was the case, then your services wouldn’t be needed.

Therefore, I will assume for the time being that your knowledge of Rose Lalonde is as bare as your bone-dry leafs. Excuse me, I of course meant Rose Egbert. That, my friend, is a little trick called a Freudian slip, and I have given that first one to you free of charge. Future ones may blunder their way into my speech, but I can assure you that they will not be as obvious to spot.

I will also assume that you have some basic knowledge about the world and how it works, or how else would you understand terms such as marriage or leafs, or any other word that is included in the very sentence I am writing? 

In the end, I suppose it doesn’t really matter. My imagination is the sole reason that you exist as a sentient being, after all. And so we move on.

What can be said of Rose Egbert that has not been said before? My better half, as I have already mentioned, is Jonathan, and between us we have two daughters, Janet, whom is thirteen, and Roxanne, who will be turning twelve in the winter, bless her soul. Some have chastised us for having them one right after the other, thinking that it resulted in their unusual closeness. They might as well be twins of the soul, even if they seem as different in appearance as Jonathan and I. 

Although a woman is supposed to never reveal her own age, it is not within your ability to pass secrets along, so I have no reservations about confiding in you. I have lived thirty-eight years, three more than my husband. Our courtship lasted a total of three years, as well. If there is anything to be said of that synchronicity, then I’m sure you, in all your brilliance, will be able to find it. 

(I have imagined you a witty journal out of the kindness of my heart. You are welcome.)

Most of our life together has been lived upon the Egbert farm with his unattached sister, Jade. When financial troubles arrived at our door, Jonathan was at last able to convince me that we should move. Suburbia is all the rage these days, you know. 

Jonathan was unable to influence Jade, however, as she was convinced that she would make it big in a larger city. Against my dear husband’s protesting, she took the first train she could to New Orleans.

Being as strong and smart as he is, I cannot imagine that it will be long before Jonathan is able to find a job in this city. Though it is no New Orleans, it does have a certain charm to it. Downtown, that is. The cornfield rows of identical square houses up in this part are more of an eyesore than anything else. Oh dear, and I do believe that I just caught myself complaining. Please believe me when I say that was not my intention, nor is that unsavory habit one that I’ve ever…

Oh, one moment. I don’t want to seem rude, but it appears that my husband wants me to meet the neighbors. I will return with what I can only imagine as verifiable information on our lovely fellow citizens here in good old Suburbia.

\--

Dear Journal,

Jumping to conclusions is a habit just as unsavory as complaining. One must have conclusive evidence before judging a book by its cover. However, I regret to admit that it is clear as day that no one in the immediate area thinks any farther than his or her front lawn.

I can understand your doubt, if doubt is even within the realm of emotions that an inanimate but sentient being can experience, so allow me to explain my reasoning. 

On the north side of our home lives the Vernon family, and on the south, the Leon family. I have just met both, or at the very least, several members of each household. Here are all the juicy little facts I have gathered to share with you as promised:

First, the Vernon family. They consist of a mother, father, and two children, one of who is a young woman, and the second of which is still in elementary school. I had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Kent Vernon, a man who’s self-restraint only manages to be taller than his height by virtue of the latter being nothing to write home about. The impression I got was that he was attempting to fit a lesson on the entire history of the neighborhood families into a short introductory period, and succeeding only in providing undetached pieces of information that ran in one ear and out the other. He then switched to spinning a tale of high school romance, in the middle of which his aforementioned sweetheart came out to hush him with obviously forced embarrassment.

Mrs. Kayanna Vernon is as tall as her husband is short, with the heavy pear-shaped figure that marked her as the mother of his children, both of whom he also seemed content to blunder on about. It seemed to be that she lived only to serve as his foil; she stood perfectly unobtrusive while there seemed no end to his dialogue.

Honestly, that is all I have to say about her. A dull woman, I would bet money on it. 

Second, the Leon family. Again, there is the mother and father, but this couple has only one child, who I hear from Mr. Vernon is adopted. Mr. Edwin Leon served in World War II, and he is one of those men who wouldn’t allow anyone to forget so. Not that I would imagine anyone would, even without his not so subtle verbal reminders. He is built like a tank, all taunt muscle that makes it mildly uncomfortable to be in his presence. I cannot imagine the discomfort he feels wearing his own skin. Then again, Edwin is apparently discomforted by a great many things. Under the strain of being asked a question about his daughter’s education, he broke out in a sweat and had to temporarily excuse himself.

Mrs. Norma Leon also serves as her husband’s opposite: petite in all senses of the word, she still manages to keep the face of a child. She was rather eager to introduce herself and her daughter, despite her haltering stutter. Little Monica Leon is nine, probably too young for either of our daughters to show interest in becoming her peer, but of course neither me nor my husband expressed such an impolite sentiment. Also, on an unrelated but important note, their daughter is hard of hearing.

(Note to self: Learn American Sign Language. It wouldn’t do to appear disagreeable with the disabled.)

Monica, I was also told by Norma, shares a playmate in Kenneth, the Venons’s younger child, who is I think was mentioned as being either four or five. I heard many a story about their toddler adventures before the setting sun provided an adequate explanation for my departure.

I am already weary of this new lifestyle, but Jonathan acts more invigorated than I’ve seen him in years. Sometimes I wonder if I am my husband’s foil, as well.

\--

10/19/1969

Dear Journal,

It’s been quite a while, hasn’t it? I almost feel an awkwardness between us. I have been busy with unpacking and settling in, and haven’t had the patience to sit down and confide my thoughts with you. Now that I have found the time, and collected the necessary energy, I am unsure what to say.

I suppose we are still too new to one another to pick off where we last left off. That, or there is no more to say on that subject.

Perhaps a simple update is in order?

We received our first letter from Jade a couple of days ago. Her words were annoyingly vague and optimistic enough that Jonathan hadn’t adequate evidence to worry about her, or demand her to come live with us. I have to admit that I have always admired Jonathan’s wily elder sister.

On another note, I have met yet another neighbor from down the street. Ernest Albert came to visit Kent, who I am now suspecting his natter partner. Mr. Albert is quite possibly the most clean-cut man I have seen with my own eyes. I felt embarrassed in his presence as his nails were prettier than my own. Of course, mine had some dirt caught underneath, so I will have to do a more thorough comparison in the future before reaching my final verdict. When he spotted me picking out the weeds in the side garden that Jonathan insisted I tend to, Ernest quickly seized the opportunity to, God’s honest truth, warn me about some of the local rabble-rousers. 

To my intense amusement, Mr. Vernon lingered to empathetically nod along as Ernest spoke.

Virginia Stevens was the first mentioned culprit. Though, from everything Mr. Albert has told me, the only crime that I heard described was her resolve to raise her daughter without the help of an absent father. Xander Carter, who was in a similar position with his own son, apparently wasn’t to be blamed for his almost identical situation. Instead, his delinquency was centered upon his repeated offenses of illicit sexual encounters with unmarried women.

Gary Mitchell, who Ernest mostly referred to as the town drunk, was briefly mentioned for a moment when Kent excused himself to grab a tool from his shed. Just as curiously, the subject of who this mysterious fellow was got dropped the second Kent was within hearing range again.

Also important to mention was Dawnie Rixon. Ernest’s exact words were as follows:

“You would imagine that a woman of her age would have more respect for herself and her reputation, but then again, she is reaching that age.” What age? I had asked. “Oh, you know, the age in which people tend to outlive their rationality.” You mean she is senile? I had asked. “Oh I am quite sure that she has no illusions about the trouble she causes.” Interesting, I had said.

(Note to self: Make a visit to the Nixon house. It has been said that she lives with her son, Timothy.)

The grand finale, though, was all Ernest had to say about the Strider family. Apparently the scoop on the family was so deep that Kent was unable to keep himself from joining in. 

The stories about the Striders were at least amusing. Kent mostly focused on Mrs. Strider’s attire, which I gathered is lacking in the earlier hours of the day. Him I attempted to ignore, for the subject soon became sore from his stubbornness to beat it to death.

Ernest, however, caught my attention with his numerous tales of, among other things, the literal zoo they ran inside their home, the father’s foul vocabulary and tendency to blare “that south banjo noise” during the night, the mother’s multiple conspiracy theories and willingness to confide in people with her boorish sex life, their inability to discipline their adrenaline junkie children who had earned more injuries between the two of them with their wild stunts than Ernest thought was conceivable, and both parents’s inability to wear clothes that were properly concealing. Also mentioned were the various “hippy” agendas they were committed to, though the specific agendas that they served were deftly avoided.

Also avoided was any sort of context behind Ernest’s own wife and family, and of course, what sort of relation, if any, Kent Vernon had with the town drunk. It is always easier to talk about other people, after all, and I suppose I can’t blame them for that.

Kid you not; I was slightly disappointed when I had to excuse myself to make dinner for my hungry and expectant daughters.

I guess what they say about everyone having skeletons is true.

\--

10/20/1969

Dear Journal,

Janet and Roxanne started school today. To my great disappointment, the school decided that due to their lack of institutionalized education, they would begin in fifth grade at the elementary before being graduated to middle school with their peers.

Their teacher, a surprisingly gorgeous single woman named Felicia Phillips, explained that the lessons they had with their aunt couldn’t be counted into their educational history, because Jade hadn’t been a certified professor. Even when I tried to explain the importance of them making friends of their own age group, which should have been a point that any certified professor would agree is imperative to their growth, Ms. Phillips still couldn’t be persuaded.

When I returned home, I must have appeared visibly upset, because Mrs. Leon stopped to ask if I was okay. (I found this disturbing; I am very rarely so transparent.) After explaining my situation, Norma tried to cheer me up by pointing out that they would be sharing a class with Monica, who was also Mrs. Phillips’s student.

I suppose that I should be flattered that she tried to comfort me. Norma appears too dim for me to suspect her of any passive antagonism.

(I am caught up in between Mrs. Dull and Mrs. Dim. I am unsure if this is humorous or not.)

(Note to self: Consider inking out the previous statement in the case Jonathan develops an interest in my opinion.)

\--

10/23/1969

Dear Journal,

I have nothing to say today. The days are becoming as ambiguous as the line between where our yard ends and our neighbor’s begins. They merely trickle into one another, to the point that the other day I have caught myself wondering the reason of naming them. To me, there is only a long stretch of days in which I do see neither my daughters nor husband except for the late or early hours, and then a brief interlude in which I see them for slightly longer periods of time.

There are so many hours in each day, and only so many tasks that need tending to in order to fill them up. My dear helpful Jonathan suggested I use any free time I am left over with to make friends with Mrs. Dull and Mrs. Dim.

Speaking of them, I have decided that crossing out that line from three days prior is not necessary. If I can trust you with my age, my petty ideas should be of no challenge to you to keep private.

\--

10/29/1969

Dear Journal,

My dear this has taken a long time. Even though there hasn’t been anything of interest to note until today, I feel a bit guilty for ignoring you for as long as I have. Still, onto pouring my heart out. This is embarrassing for me to admit, but I may have judged Mrs. Dull a little too early. 

It started with the garden. As you probably remember, Jonathan suggested that I try to bring it to life. Back on the farm, I tended to the crops. This would surely provide no big feat to me.

So I assumed too quickly. Most of the seed packets I picked up from the store bloomed into picturesque plants fit for the scenery within a few days. This applied to almost all but one: the orchids. Those pesky flowers decided to take on a most deathly appearance, to the point where I could have rather have uprooted them all, if I hadn’t been interrupted by dear, sweet Kayanna.

“Your orchids appear a bit under the weather,” she had said.

Oh sweet Lord above, I prayed, please do not make my neighbor a woman who considers puns a high form of humor. However, much to my dual dismay and relief, her tone was void of any wit. Rather, she sounded as though she were mourning my doomed florae.

Yes, I had told her, and explained my tale of trouble with them, and how they fought me at every turn. 

Then, with the more sincere face I have ever witnessed in all my years, excluding those that one may see on the face of children, she offered her help.

Oh yes, what a help she would be, I distinctly remembered thinking. I declined her help in a polite manner, assuring her that I had come from the country, in which I had made a name and profit from drawing food right out of the soil and manure. Flowers, in comparison, were neither as mandatory to my quality of life nor as difficult to work with. Surely functionally minded persons would understand.

Kayanna did not, and even gave – and I do not jest – a most delighted giggle, as though through expounding on my past I had told a joke.

“Then as an expert on gardening,” was her precise reply, “you know that orchids wilt in direct sunlight.”

Journal, I cannot express in words the emotions in which I am experiencing just in the simple task of recalling this exchange. You may assume shame, and while I will not deny that being my first instinctual reaction, it is no longer part of the equation.

For you see, I am a woman of much joy. I have traveled, I had thought, to a land of bland synchronicity and sameness, in which no man’s opinion would come from any source other than the collective consciousness they call the “good of the community”. Then you see how elated I must be to have been mistaken, and to have found at least one tongue that bears at least a passing resemblance to a razor’s edge. Perhaps my mind will not follow my late flowers to the grave after all.

And, even more so, I look upon these cornfield rows of singularity and whitewashed fences, and no longer do I see my imprisonment.

Call me wicked, journal, but I think there may be a bit of fun in this town to be had.


End file.
